


my bones won't hold me up

by hollow_dweller



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: He gasps, body jerking, and that is when he becomes aware of hands, large and calloused, gripping him, firm but gentle. An arm snakes underneath him, hauling him upwards, into a sitting position. He is weaker than he can ever recall being, muscles utterly useless; his head lolls on his neck until a broad palm fits itself against the back of his head, cradling him as one might cradle an infant.He feels rough fabric scrape against his cheek, and a familiar scent fills his nose: woodsmoke and sweat, and underneath that, something intangible but unmistakable.David.*In which Diarmuid falls ill and the Mute is Concerned.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	my bones won't hold me up

**Author's Note:**

> a belated birthday gift for meg, madame president of the gay monk fan club. some sick diarmuid and worried, protective mute to thank you for everything you do for our teeny tiny fandom. i hope you enjoy <3 <3 <3 
> 
> title from "Someone Who Loves Me" by Sara Bareilles

In any other circumstance, it would not have taken nearly so long for Diarmuid to realize that something was wrong. 

They have been travelling for weeks, long, tense days spent skirting Norman territory, every sense honed and listening for the sounds of shodden hooves or clattering armour. Nights are hardly more restful, sleeping in shifts so they are never left in the position of being caught unawares by an approaching enemy. Their provisions have been limited to what they can carry, most meals foraged off the land, and more often than not their days have closed with both their bellies aching in hunger. 

At this point, pain and exhaustion are familiar sensations, so when Diarmuid wakes up with a deep, lingering ache in his muscles, he thinks little of it. So too does he brush off the dull throb behind his temples, the dry, scraping pain in a throat he cannot quite seem to clear. 

Travel that day is slower than normal, Diarmuid struggling to keep up with their usual steady pace. He lags farther as the day goes on, feet dragging despite his best efforts. He cannot even muster up the energy to object when David, brow creased in evident concern, has them stop for the day, hours earlier than they normally would. 

He does manage to tut, fondly exasperated, when David tries to get him to sit on a fallen log, clearly intending to do all the work of setting up the night’s camp without him. 

“Do not be absurd,” he says. “I will begin preparations here while you find us food. It will be much quicker if we split the tasks.” 

David frowns, shifting on his feet, hand twitching briefly in Diarmuid’s direction, as though he wants to reach out and touch him. 

Diarmuid smiles, tremulous. “I am perfectly fine. Just- just a little tired. I do not think I slept well, last night.” 

David does not look convinced, but he does eventually set out to see if there is any food to be foraged, looking over his shoulder one last time before he goes. Diarmuid, for his part, sets about the process of starting a fire, gathering what dry sticks and old pine needles he can for tinder. 

It is as he is leaning down to collect a particularly promising fallen branch that he is suddenly overcome with a wave of dizziness. He staggers, hands shooting out to brace himself against the nearest tree, head spinning, vision blurring. 

His knees buckle, then, and the last thing he is aware of is a jarring pain as they hit the forest floor, before he is plunged into darkness.

* * *

Diarmuid wakes up on fire. 

Pain licks its way up his spine, searing its way into the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his neck. Distantly, he can feel the ground beneath him, but wave after wave of disorientation crashes over him, as though he is falling, or drowning. 

He gasps, body jerking, and that is when he becomes aware of hands, large and calloused, gripping him, firm but gentle. An arm snakes underneath him, hauling him upwards, into a sitting position. He is weaker than he can ever recall being, muscles utterly useless; his head lolls on his neck until a broad palm fits itself against the back of his head, cradling him as one might cradle an infant. 

He feels rough fabric scrape against his cheek, and a familiar scent fills his nose: woodsmoke and sweat, and underneath that, something intangible but unmistakable. 

_ David. _

He wants to say something, but when he opens his mouth all that he can manage is a slightly strangled whimper. 

God’s mercy, he  _ hurts _ . 

A grunt from somewhere over his head, and then a hand on his cheek. His skin feels tender, raw and oversensitized, the rough pads of David’s fingers almost too much as he taps Diarmuid gently on the cheekbone. 

He wants Diarmuid to look at him, but Diarmuid’s not certain that he  _ can.  _

He tries, because underneath all the pain and disorientation, he can feel David’s chest moving sharply, breath coming out in rough, erratic pants. He does not wish for David to be frightened, not for him, so he tries. 

His vision is blurry, but their faces are close enough that he can make out the worried set to David’s brow, the thinly-veiled panic in his eyes. 

He whines again, distressed to be the source of David’s upset. He raises a clumsy hand, drawing trembling fingers over the worry-lines etched into David’s skin. 

“I-” the word comes out as barely more than a croak. He swallows, feels the muscles in his throat work. “I am alright.” 

David lets out a puff of air that might, in other circumstances, have qualified as a snort. He tips his head to the side, leaning briefly into Diarmuid’s touch. Then he shifts, one arm sliding under Diarmuid’s thighs, the other tightly curled against Diarmuid’s back. Slowly, so as to not jostle Diarmuid too much, he stands. 

Diarmuid rests his head against David’s shoulder, jaw clenching. David is as careful with him as ever, handling Diarmuid like a precious thing, but that does not stop the shards of pain that lodge themselves in Diarmuid’s back at the motion, the nauseated roll of his stomach. 

He bites on the inside of his cheek, swallowing the whimper that scrapes its way up his throat, as David begins to walk, carrying him away.

* * *

Diarmuid fades in and out of awareness as they travel, attention scattered and fractured, so it is a surprise when he finds himself laid out on the ground next to a gently babbling creek. The sky overhead is ablaze with the rich oranges and reds of sunset, and beyond it the encroaching blackness of dusk. 

He groans and stirs. He can feel the fabric of his sleeveless undertunic slide wetly against his skin; he has sweat entirely through it. He is missing his robe. 

The sound of soft footfalls, and then David enters his field of vision. 

He is still frowning deeply, concern evident. He kneels, lifting a hand, and that is when Diarmuid realizes that he is holding a wad of wet fabric in one hand- his own shirt, Diarmuid realizes, noticing for the first time that David is bare-chested. 

His eyes are drawn to the broad span of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his chest, and so it comes as a shock when David wipes his shirt down one of Diarmuid’s bare arms. 

He flinches, gasping, the cold and wet a brand against his fevered skin. He tries to roll away, instinctive, but David stops him, pressing down lightly on Diarmuid’s shoulder and shushing him. 

He shakes his head, overwhelmed, and screws his eyes shut against the tears that spring to them, sudden and burning. 

“Please,” he gasps out. “It-  _ Please _ .” 

David shushes him again and rubs his shoulder. Even that soothing touch is too much, and Diarmuid whimpers, tears finally escaping his eyes, sliding down his temples. 

The next touch of wet fabric to overheated skin is worse than the first, needles of cold boring into his skin, sharp and inescapable. A distant part of Diarmuid is aware that this is necessary- David is trying to bank the fever that has overtaken Diarmuid’s body- but it  _ hurts _ . 

Diarmuid does not want to, but he cannot help the sobs that shake his frame as David continues to wipe him down- along his arms, his neck, pulling up his shirt to reach his chest and belly, up to his face to dab away each fresh wave of tears. He keeps up the low shushing noises, but to Diarmuid’s relief does not touch him other than to continue bathing him. 

He normally loves the feeling of David’s hands on him, relishes it, but right now he cannot process anything beyond the aching of his body, the blazing cold fire against his skin. 

By the time David pulls away, moving to rinse his sodden shirt out in the creek, Diarmuid’s head is spinning again, his body trembling violently. 

David returns, gathering Diarmuid up into his arms, before standing. Diarmuid rests his head once more against David’s now-bare shoulder, and succumbs to the darkness gathering at the edges of his vision. 

* * *

When Diarmuid wakes next, night has fallen completely. 

He is distantly aware of fingers brushing gently through his hair, sweeping curls away from his forehead, where sweat had plastered them to the skin. Lips then, brushing against his forehead, his nose, his cheek. An arm around his waist, firm enough to be grounding, and the deep, even rise and fall of a chest underneath him. 

Warm breath against his ear, and then he hears a wordless hum, soft and melodic. After a moment, the sound resolves itself into a hymn, familiar in cadence even without words. 

Something in his chest loosens, muscles relaxing, tension leaching out of his body as he settles more firmly against the one beneath him. 

He turns his face, just slightly, pressing his lips against the bared skin of David’s neck. The hand in his hair flexes; the hymn falters, briefly, before resuming, slightly louder than before, more confident. 

Diarmuid allows himself to slip into the comfort of that sound, the safety of the arms around him, and back into sleep.

* * *

The sound of birdsong filters into Diarmuid’s consciousness, early-morning sun seeping through the thin skin of his eyelids. 

He stirs, and so does the body beneath him. He tilts his head back, peeling his eyes open, to see David looking back at him, brow furrowed into a frown that is half-concerned, half-questioning. 

Diarmuid feels… not well, precisely, but better. He feels weak, shaky, but not overcome with pain, as he had the day before. Another day, perhaps two, and he will be ready to resume their journey. 

Diarmuid opens his mouth, ready to assure David of his improved health, but pauses. David is tense, Diarmuid can tell, stiff beneath him. Something... pained lingers in his eyes, and Diarmuid realizes it will take more than just placating words to assuage David’s worry. 

Instead he smiles, letting it turn a little bashful, and says, “I am terrifically hungry.”

David’s breath escapes him in an amused huff, as close as he comes to a laugh, and he smiles so broadly that the corners of his eyes crinkle with it. The arms around Diarmuid tighten, even as the tension in the rest of his body eases, ever so slightly. 

Diarmuid takes that minute relaxation as the victory that it is, and shifts, craning his neck so that he can press his nose to David’s cheek, nuzzling. 

“Thank you,” he says, lips brushing the soft skin there. 

David does not respond, except to turn his head and nuzzle Diarmuid back, noses nudging, cheek rubbing against cheek, and clutch him closer. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always cherished. come hang with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/), if you're so inclined. thanks for reading!


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